Alone in Black
by SQA
Summary: A one-shot on the opening scene in 'Metallo', under the POV of Clark.


**Summary: A one-shot on the opening scene in 'Metallo', under the POV of Clark — if any.**

**Title: Deserts Apart**

**Author: Maria Amadei | Date: 07-01-2010**

**Rating: PG-13**

**Disclaimer: Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not a mine. Characters belong to 'Smallville', Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel (creators of Superman); DC Comics/Universe, and anyone else I haven't mentioned but should have *looks sheepish*. There. That should cover it.**

**Spoiler: [Mention of end scene of 9.01 "Savior", and…] 9.02 "Metallo"**

**Inspired by the opening scene, after the opening credits, in 9.02 "Metallo", whereby Clark is standing on the edge of the rooftop of the Daily Planet watching over the city.**

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><p><strong>Alone in Black<strong>

The sun is rising. I'm waiting. Looking, searching, from left to right: only existing, as an empty hollow shell of a man that I may once have been. Hanging from a hilltop, staying on the mountaintop, waiting on the Daily Planet rooftop. It's _ours_. Just ours. Only ours. Yours and Mine.

I hear a mother rock her baby with a lullaby. I hear sweet nothings, and hushed somethings. I hear proposals of marriage. I hear the pains and hurts of break-ups. I hear life moving on. I guess, in some miserly meaningful way, it makes me connected to a life I needed to leave behind. And I did, successfully. But my reasons have changed. _I've _changed, of that there is no doubt.

And suddenly, like a robot, I'm needed: the sounds of sirens creating my path.

I rush, like the wind. I rush with all my might. I rush to where I'm needed. I rush to have some semblance of a life. But it's okay, because she's alive. It's okay because she's safe. After three weeks of disappearance, after three weeks of nothing. And it's okay: because after all this time, she still knows me better than anyone.

I called her later that night, or maybe it was earlier the next morning. I just had to hear her; I just had to hear her voice. I had to hear it speaking to me.

So, standing at my adopted perch in the crow's nest, cloaked by the surrounding darkness of despondency, despair and destitution that only the night could provide, I called her and waited for her to answer.

She answered, and slowly… gradually… the desolation began its lift, if only for a few precious moments. I started to feel a modicum of the shell of the man I used to be.

And now, here I stand, at _our_ special place, looking over the city we both love so much. I still feel some of the left-over calm from our shared conversation the night before. I still feel that tiny tingling niggle of a life that I _could_ still lead, if only I just become who I would have been before.

But so much has happened. So much has changed. Three weeks of fortitude. Three weeks of frozenness. Three weeks of continued existence: _all_ without an end date, _all_ without an end in sight.

I bear this heavy burden, its weight nestling on my shoulders. I may not have been directly involved in my friend's death, but I _was_ still involved. My pain is discreet, it being foreshadowed with the overwhelming nothingness that I feel. No one knows this ache I feel. All those around me, all they see is a carbon copy of who I once was; but painless, hurtles, locked down, shadow-less, just something.

Those closest to me see a man closed off: a heart with so many walls and blockades, surrounding the outer spheres of emotion, that it becomes difficult to discriminate between one emotion and the next; and all this from the little teenaged boy who, up until three weeks ago, had been _so_ easy to read. _That_ little teenaged boy wore his emotions on his sleeve.

It doesn't escape me, the irony of the moment I put out a flicker of the flame of the little capacity of hope, which we _both_ had, to have a chance at change and moving on. That night I saw the walls and barriers come back up full force, higher than even those of Fort Knox.

I never thought that I'd ever be kept on the outside of them. For so long, I had been on the other side. For so long, I'd always been privy to the amalgam of emotions of love, hate, despair, loneliness, happiness, hurt, pride, pain, loyalty, trustworthiness, kindness… tears. For so long, I'd been let in. I didn't _completely_ realise, until after that night, just how much of a privilege that was.

Unknowingly, I'd done the one thing I'd never wanted to do, by hurting her; I'd hurt Lois Joanne Lane.

The moment she let me in entirely would always remain fresh in my mind. It was when she had decided to permanently break up with the first man she'd ever loved, Oliver Queen. She'd just found out that her suspicions from the previous year, that Oliver Queen and the Green Arrow were one and the same person, had been correct. Momentously deciding that Oliver's fate and destiny was _so_ _much_ _more_ than that which was meant for hers, Lois had done what she knew Oliver wouldn't.

That occurrence may have influenced _my_ ill-formed decision to not divulge in my intergalactic origins to her when I'd turned back time to live the same day again, or to not meet her at the coffee shop later that evening.

She always believed that she was nothing special, that she wasn't needed. She'd always believed that either: good things were never meant to happen to her, she couldn't possibly ever mean any_thing_ to any_one_, or that she was never meant to have been anything special and that she was never have meant to be needed, or wanted, by anyone.

It probably had a lot to do with everything she'd had to overcome when she was younger. Her mother dying when she was six, and having to subsequently play double duty as a surrogate mother of sorts to her younger sister, Lucy, and making sure everything was in order — as a mother should; getting them out of jams _Lucy_ had created, and _her_ being constantly berated, downgraded, scolded and criticised and repetitively scrutinised as the weakest link of the family, whereas her sister Lucy was always given the preferential treatment; Lucy getting sent off to an immensely prestigious private school in Switzerland, while _she_ had to live out of a suitcase following her father, The General, from country to country like another piece of his luggage; every boy and man leaving her for a 'higher calling'; and always, _always_, being left behind, being second. All of it being contributing factors.

No. She was special; she'd _always_ remain special. She'd always be wanted. _I_ needed _her_; I'd always needed _her_; more than I thought I could ever possibly need _any_one. But I hadn't helped her, I hadn't told her just _how_ special and wonderful she truly was. Or how special and wonderful and beautiful she would always remain. Instead, all I'd done was encourage her in her beliefs of meaninglessness.

I don't deserve her. I've never deserved her. And yet, here I am, floundered, with _her_ wanting _me_. Never have I been so astounded before.

It had taken me weeks to realise what I've only ever truthfully needed, _who_ I've always needed. It had taken her disappearing, vanishing, with no trace to be found, to know what I know now.

But it's too late now, because I can't be human anymore. I can't think with my emotions anymore. And I'll never be who I once was anymore.

But it's okay, because she's alive. It's okay because she's safe. After three weeks of disappearance, after three weeks of nothing. And it's okay: because after all this time, she still knows me better than anyone.

And as I stand here, listening, in our special place; suddenly, like a robot, I'm needed, the sounds of sirens creating my path.


End file.
